A/N: I probably post about a chapter or two every day or so. I promise. Now enjoy, my pretties!
Doctor John Hamish Watson sat in his usual chair by the fire staring at his laptop. The florescent glowing background straining his eyes. "The Personal Blog of John H. Watson" were the only words on the page. A small line stood blinking at him slowly and intensely in the upper left hand corner of the screen begging him to please just write. But he just sat staring. Staring… Staring…
"Dear?" John jolted upright, surprised at the sudden noise. He caught his computer just in time before it slipped off his lap.
"Mrs. Hudson… I…" She gave him a concerned look.
"Dear, are you sure you're alright? You've been at that for hours!" He swallowed.
"Yes. I'm… er… fine. Thank you." She began to leave before he stopped her. "Actually, if I could have a cup of tea, that would be nice." Mrs. Hudson squeezed his hand before disappearing into the kitchen, not even bothering to mention that she was not his housekeeper. She knew how the poor boy must be feeling. She knew how she felt. And it was not at all pleasant.
John sighed and tapped the keys of the laptop mournfully before he heard the thud.
"Help! H-help!" John put the laptop on the chair, not at all carefully, and rushed into the kitchen.
"Mrs. Hudson! What is it?" Then he saw her lying awkwardly on the ground shuddering and softly crying in pain. He rushed to her side and pulled out his mobile phone to call the ambulance.
"M-my hip…" She shuddered.
Three hours later, he was back in his flat, but this time, at the window, without a laptop. He had left St. Barts in a hurry. He wanted nothing more to do with that place. It brought back too many memories from some eight months before. Mrs. Hudson had broken her hip, but the doctors said that she would be getting better in a matter of weeks. Not that he had already known this, being an army doctor himself. But he trusted them with his beloved landlady. The people at St. Barts were skilled.
Oh, St. Barts. That was where he…
John's face contorted, his hands shaking. He dropped to his knees, the world once again crumbling before him. He couldn't do it. Not alone. Not without Sherlock. He couldn't live without him.
The tears gradually slipped from his eyes, blinding his vision. He had never cried like this before. Not at the funeral. Not even when he jumped. They were scalding hot and ran down his face and nose, his eyes burning. It was too hard. He needed his best friend. His love.
Just then, there was a click of the lock on the door. John slowly drew his hands away from his face and stumbled to his feet. A man strode in.
John's face went ashen.
"Oh hullo, John. Long time no see. Hope you are well." The man left the room, turning the corner at the hall. His long trench coat billowing after him.
And that was the day that Dr. John Hamish Watson started to believe in ghosts.